


Secret Santa

by LadyCavil



Series: The Holidays [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Party, Escape the intern, Gen, Hiding, No Trading Allowed, Running Away, Secret Santa, There's an intern in the closet, Under the table is the place to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The office's annual game of Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riversidewren](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=riversidewren).



                “What are you going to get him?” Porthos inquires over Athos’ shoulder.

                “A chastity device,” Athos deadpans, and Porthos fully steps into Athos’ office and shuts the door so he doesn’t have to try quite so hard to contain his laughter.

                “I don’t think Aramis would actually use it.” Porthos drops into the chair in front of Athos desk and chuckles once more at the thought. “I’ll trade ya.”

                “Why?” Instantly Athos is prepared for a trap. Porthos never breaks the ‘no trading names’ rule, mainly because he’s outrageously good at giving the perfect gift. Porthos’ offer has turned this year’s Secret Santa into a potential nightmare. Is he offering out of sudden mercy on Athos? Has he been involved in name-trading all these years and only now involving Athos? Or is that Porthos doesn’t want the name he pulled? “Who’s your person?”

                “de Winter.”

                With them seated on around his desk, the shades drawn, and the door shut, it feels so very much like a scene from a crime film when Porthos drops the folded piece of paper onto Athos’ desk, the name scrawled in black ink of doom. Athos stares for several seconds transfixed by the gentle, sweeping handwriting forming those eight letters. He could ponder the irony all day, but Porthos sits waiting for his reply.

                “No. Absolutely not. She’s all yours.”

                A knock at the door draws Athos’ mind away from de Winter and the scrap of paper Porthos casually returns to his pocket. The door opens to reveal Aramis who slips into the office as though he’s hiding.

                “Athos, trade with me,” Aramis begs while crossing the room to lean on the desk. “I’ve got Rochefort, and unless gifting a bomb is acceptable, I need to trade.”

                “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

                “Athos,” he groans and sprawls across the desktop.

                “I. Cannot. Trade with you.”

                “What if,” Porthos begins with a thoughtful expression, “I take Athos’, Aramis takes mine, and Athos gets Aramis’.”

                “No,” is Athos immediate answer.

                “Who do you have, Porthos?” Curiosity piqued, Aramis rises up like the undead and turns to face his friend.

                “de Winter.”

                Aramis frowns and looks back to Athos. “Are you sure we can’t trade?”

                Athos releases an exasperated sigh before leaving the room, and it’s only when he’s reached the breakroom that he realizes he’s moodily left his own office. Shaking his head at his behavior, he pours a cup of coffee, then wanders about the floor until Aramis and Porthos leave his space.

                That evening as they trickle out of the building and into the parking lot, Athos steps close to Porthos as he offers, “Get her a knife set. She always wants a new knife set.”

                “Always?”

                Athos shrugs. “She has a love of knives, kitchen or otherwise.” He can hear Porthos’ laughter even after Athos starts his car.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

[Athos 7:16 pm] When was the last time Aramis changed his guitar strings?

[Porthos 7:16 pm] Last year or the year before? He said something about needing to change them last week.

[Athos 7:17 pm] Do you know what gauge he uses?

[Porthos 7:19 pm] What?

[Athos 7:19 pm] What gauge strings does he use?

[Porthos 7:20 pm] No idea what you’re on about.

[Athos 7:20 pm] Ask him.

[Athos 7:20 pm] But be natural about it.

[Porthos 7:21 pm] How am I meant to naturally ask about that?

[Athos 7:21 pm] I don’t know, be casual.

[Porthos 7:22 pm] Are you making a Star Wars reference?

[Athos 7:22 pm] Porthos, focus.

[Porthos 7:23 pm] Alright, hang on.

[Athos 8:37 pm] Porthos.

[Athos 8:50 pm] I’m going to tell Samara you’re interested in her.

[Porthos 8:50 pm] Calm down. I can feel your glare through my phone.

[Porthos 8:52 pm] He said extra light.

[Athos 8:52 pm] Extra light what?

[Porthos 8:53 pm] Extra light strings.

[Athos 8:54 pm] Never mind. I’ll figure it out.

◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊ - ◊

                When the day of the Secret Santa gift exchange rolls around, the office is filled with decorations, music, laughter, and the scents of every blissfully hot, winter drink for the office. Everyone works, or makes a good show of it, until five o’clock rolls around; the entire staff seems to freeze as they wait for Tréville to declare the week day over and the party started. They don’t have to wait for him, but they do every year whether it’s out of respect or some tradition they picked up over time.

                D’Artagnan, the latest intern in the office, has apparently not been informed of this. He notes the stillness of the office, the quiet that has descended over such loud and chatty people. Spinning in a circle three times, he comes away with no indication of the cause, so asks, “Is everything alright?”

                D’Artagnan’s met with a multitude of shushing and even a few death threats, and from where Athos leans against the frame of his open office door, he spies a conspiratorial look passing between Rochefort and de Winter. He can’t keep the slight smirk from creeping into the corner of his mouth because Athos knows what deeds follow that look; after all, he’s been working with these people longer than most. Meanwhile d’Artagnan fails at escaping the negative attention by attempting to become one with the wall.

                At eleven minutes past the hour, the door to Tréville’s office opens, and out steps their fearless leader. “Well, get on with it.” Short and to the point.

                In less than a second Ninon is up and directing the moving of desks and tables so that there is a row of tables for food and drinks and an open space for dancing or whatever people fancy. Athos watches the flurry of activity from the safety of his doorway; before long Aramis and Porthos appear on either side of him despite the death glare Ninon is sending them for their inactivity. Athos shrugs. Aramis winks. Porthos is as close to giggling as he can possibly get. Ninon huffs and goes back to commanding her party army.

                “Heh. Look,” Aramis laughs and points down the hallway to where Rochefort and de Winter have d’Artagnan trapped between them. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis watch the three disappear all the way down the hall and take a left. There’s one thing down there: the supply closet. Anne and Rochefort reappear four seconds later with smug grins.

                “Maybe someone should let him out,” Constance wonders, but Porthos shakes his head. Aramis throws an arm around her shoulders and guides her toward the tables of food to distract her from the intern stuffed away in the closet.

                Athos sweeps his gaze across the room, simply enjoying how lively the holidays can make the office. His eyes land on the present in Rochefort’s hands. It’s roughly the size of a shoebox, and this brings to mind Aramis’ comment about gifting the man a bomb. “Should I be concerned?” he asks without taking his eyes away from the man tearing the paper apart.

                “Nah,” Porthos replies. Athos looks at Porthos then because he sounds strangely amused by this. Porthos is just pushing record on his phone to capture Rochefort’s reaction to the gift, so Athos turns back to see it for himself.

                From where they stand, they can’t see what’s in the box. What they do see is the look of surprise and wonder take over Rochefort’s face. He’s so pleased with whatever Aramis put in the box that his smile is just this side of wobbly, and a tear of joy dances it ways down his cheek before Rochefort can return his features to their standard pompous expression. Closing the box, he tucks it under his arms and exits the room without a word.

                “What just happened?” Athos looks around to find Aramis while Porthos plays the video back.

                “I have no idea. He just told me to record it.”

                “At least it wasn’t a bomb.”

                “Go be social,” Porthos says and shoves Athos toward the refreshments.

                Athos grabs a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate and adds an excessive amount of marshmallows. Because it’s Christmas and he can do what he wants. This is what he tells himself. Over the rim of his cup he watches Porthos present his gift to de Winter and make a hasty retreat.

                “Chicken,” Athos calls Porthos when he gets close enough.

                “Am not,” Porthos grumps and drinks a glass of egg nog with the same speed and dedication one would a shot of alcohol.

                “She’s smiling, if that helps.”

                “I think Anne de Winter would smile while murdering innocent creatures.” Porthos munches away on a cookie, a brownie, and then another brownie when a thought strikes him. “Where’s Aramis gone?”

                “No clue. Hide the women.” Porthos nearly chokes on his brownie, so Athos pats him on the back and manages to maintain a straight face despite their coworkers’ looks of concern. “He’s fine. This, Porthos, is why you should take your time eating.”

                “I hate you,” Porthos states once he can breathe again.

                “Porthos?” Samara approaches and asks, “Are you ok?”

                He nods and tries to be as casual and cool as possible because this is Samara standing in front of him, and he’s not about to throw away four and half months of subtle flirting because Athos made a joke and he couldn’t keep it together long enough to swallow. “Yeah, Athos caught me off guard.”

                She sends Athos a quick smile and goes right back to Porthos. “This is for you.” Her actions mirror those taken by Porthos just minutes ago as she scurries away to the opposite side of the room.

                “Don’t say a word,” Porthos warns without needing to see that Athos was about to speak. Athos takes a long drink of his cooling hot chocolate and scans the crowd in search of Aramis for the umpteenth time.

                The gift, once unwrapped, is a book of poetry and an iTunes gift card. Porthos sends Samara a pearly white smile over the heads of their coworkers, and it only grows when she returns it.

                “What is it?” Aramis’ voice comes out of nowhere.

                “Aramis?”

                “Are you under the table?” Porthos begins to crouch, but a hand shoots out from under the long table cloth and latches onto Porthos’ ankle.

                “Stop,” he pleads. “Marguerite is after me.”

                “So you hid under the food?” Athos says while looking at Porthos in an attempt to disguise Aramis’ presence.

                “A poor decision, yes, but it _was_ the best available option.”

                “She’s coming,” Porthos whispers out of the side of his mouth facing away from the approaching woman.

                “Have you either of you seen Aramis?”

                Porthos shoves a Twix bar in his mouth, and Athos shakes his head. “No, in fact I’m looking for him as well. If you manage to find him, could you tell him I need to see him immediately?”

                “I will,” she sighs and continues her search.

                “Has d’Artagnan made it out yet?” Aramis pops his head out from underneath his shelter and stares up at his friends.

                “Nah,” Porthos chuckles.

                “How long do you think it’ll take him to realize there’s a key hanging above the door?”

                “Knowing Rochefort and de Winter, they’re probably timing him.” Athos checks his watch. The intern’s been gone for nearly an hour now.

                “You three can be so mean.”

                Porthos and Athos trade confused expressions and then drop to the floor to see just how many people are hiding beneath the table. Athos surveys the people nearby before ducking under the table cover to join Aramis and Constance with Porthos right behind.

                “Tell me, Constance, why are _you_ under here?” Athos wonders aloud.

                “I’m hiding from d’Artagnan.”

                “Who’s currently in the supply closet,” Porthos reminds her.

                “Well I thought he’d be out by now.”

                “He had such potential.” Leave it to Aramis to be dramatic. “I thought Constance would give us away earlier after your comment about hiding the women, Athos.”

                “I’m not sorry.”

                “I didn’t expect you to be.”

                Constance clucks her tongue and huffs at the exchange, but she softens when Athos hands Aramis his gift. “Oh, Athos, here.” She passes her present to Athos.

                “I did not suspect you at all.” Constance beams; Athos is as good at guessing his secret Santa as Porthos is at giving gifts.

                When Aramis starts unwrapping his present, he’s cautious and precise, but it takes three seconds at most for his childlike excitement to win out and decimate Athos’ wrapping efforts. “Athos, you know there’s a spending limit in this game,” Aramis murmurs as he finds not one but two sets of guitar stings in his hand.

                “But you needed two sets. You have two guitars, and both are in need of fresh strings.”

                “Open your present already. You’re being rude.” Aramis chucks his crumpled up gift paper at Athos’ head, Porthos intercepts and sends it right back to Aramis.

                Athos liberates his gift with the same care that Aramis abandoned but applies it from start to finish. Aramis complains about unnecessary suspense; Constance elbows him and tells him to hush or she’ll tell Marguerite where’s he’s hiding.

                Athos is sure he’s going to die from sheer happiness; Constance has baked toffee nut cookies for him. And there are chocolate covered espresso beans. And movie tickets. Star Wars 7 is nearly here, and Constance gave him movie tickets.

                “Constance, if we weren’t hiding under a table right now, I would hug you.”

                Porthos leans over to get a look at what’s got Athos in the mood to hug somebody, and he gives Constance two thumbs up in recognition of her success.

                Feeling unusually gracious and benevolent, Athos opens the baggie of beans and allows his friends to partake of his chocolate covered gold.

                “Aramis, can you reach the hot chocolate?” Constance asks a few minutes later. Aramis snakes his hand out into the open and slides it along the tabletop until he comes to the cups.

                “Need some help with that?” Tréville asks, and all four of them freeze on instinct.

                “Yes, please,” Constance replies after slight hesitation.

                “How many do you need?”

                “Four, thank you.”

                “The four of you are under the table because?” Tréville passes two cups of hot chocolate down to them.

                “I’m hiding from d’Artagnan.”

                “And I’m hiding from Marguerite.”

                “Athos and Porthos?” Cups 3 and 4 appear beside Aramis’ head.

                “I like the company, and Athos needed to get his gift from Constance.”

                “There’s a clear path to the door if you’d like to make a break for it. You might run into Marguerite if you go to Athos’ office. I don’t see d’Artagnan.”

                “He’s in the closet,” Aramis informs him before blowing on his drink and taking a cautious sip.

                “How long?”

                “Ask Rochefort.”

                Tréville hums distractedly. “Marguerite’s opening a present. I can keep her attention away from the door…”

                “That would be lovely,” Aramis groans and rubs at the ache in his back born of spending over an hour and a half hunched beneath a table.

                “Move fast.” And then Tréville is gone.

                Porthos goes first to make sure the rest don’t get ambushed during their escape. Aramis comes next, and Marguerite nearly catches sight of him before Tréville can redirect her. Porthos’ eyes widen, and he waves Aramis faster. Constance darts out, and with the intern still in the closet she makes it without incident. Then there’s Athos who struts out giving no indication that he’d just spent a portion of the party beneath a table. He strolls up to Ninon on the way out and salutes her with his already empty cup.

                “Marvelous party, Ninon.” Tossing the cup into the trash, Athos joins his friends in the donning of coats and emerge into the frigid December air.

                As the door closes the last few inches, they hear “Has anyone seen Constance?”

                “d’Artagnan,” she hisses, and they all take off for their vehicles. “Drinks at mine!” she calls.

                Athos places his present carefully on the passenger seat and laughs to himself while he starts his car. Secret Santa is always an adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> If Athos’ and Porthos’ chat about guitar strings went over your head, here’s the deal. Stringed instruments have different gauges generally ranging from extra light to heavy. The specifics of gauges change from manufacturer to manufacturer, so a set of light strings from one company may be thicker than lights from another. Not only are there different gauges, strings are made from a variety of materials (nylon, brass, bronze, and more). So Porthos telling Athos ‘extra light’ wasn’t very helpful. Cue super sneaky Athos who probably went over to Aramis’ place one day, broke into his guitar case and did some detective work.


End file.
